The Lost Throne

65

Dial and Andropoulos sat in the customs office for over two hours as Petros pleaded their case. First on the phone, and then he went to Karyes to see the governor in person. Unfortunately, the governor wasn’t in a forgiving mood. He would reconsider their request in the morning. In the meantime, no permit was granted.

Karyes was a tiny medieval town sitting on the crest of the hill, a fifteen-minute drive from Dáfni. The only public transport was a shuttle van that zigzagged up and down the unpaved road, sending a cloud of dust into the air. It looked out of place in this simple world, where monks preferred to walk and supplies were carried by pack mules.

When Petros returned, he broke the news to Dial. “I am sorry, Nick. There is nothing more I can do. Not until morning.”

Dial took it in stride. “Thank you for trying. I’m sure you did your best.”

“I did, and so did your colleague. He called the governor twice while I was there.”

Dial was pleased by the thought of Toulon groveling.

“If you like, you can spend night in Dáfni.”

“Where? In here?”

Petros laughed. “Not in this office, across courtyard. We have small hotel, market, and restaurant. You are not the first traveler who has been denied entry.”

“I don’t know,” Dial said as he considered his alternatives. “What are the odds that the governor will let me through tomorrow morning?”

“I am not sure. It depends on his mood. But if he says no, I have other options.”

“Such as?”

“Each monastery has one abbot. If he extends a personal invitation, you may enter grounds with special permit. Twenty monasteries mean twenty chances.”

“Really? I didn’t know that.”

“Most people do not. It is customs secret.”

“But if I can’t come in, how can I plead my case?”

“You cannot. But I can,” Petros said. “And most abbots are nicer than the governor.”

As the plane touched down in Limnos, Payne stared at the Venetian castle that was perched above the island’s main harbor. Built in the thirteenth century, its gray stone walls contrasted sharply with the red-tiled roofs that lined the sandy beaches.

Jarkko beamed with pride. “Is beautiful, no?”

Payne nodded. “Very. I’ve never been to this part of Greece before.”

“My yacht is in marina. We will be there soon.”

“How far are we from Mount Athos?”

“You shall see shortly.”

Payne wasn’t sure what Jarkko meant until they stepped out of the plane. Even though they were more than 50 miles away from the mountain, Payne could see the snowcapped peak in the distance. It towered over the Aegean as Mount Fuji towered above Japan.

Jarkko patted him on the back. “I hope you bring coat!”

The Spartans lingered a few miles offshore until the sun dipped below the horizon. Then they eased their boat into the southwest corner of the peninsula and dropped anchor.

One by one, they jumped into the waist-deep water and made their way to the shore. Ten of them in total, all of them dressed in battle gear. Breastplates and greaves protected their bodies and shins, and helmets protected their heads. They carried shields on one arm. Swords stored in scabbards were strapped to their backs, and daggers hung from their hips. One Spartan looked different — it was Apollo, the leader of the group, who had a plume of red horsehair topping his helmet, which signified his rank.

He would set the pace. He would give the orders.

He would tell them when to kill.

And soon, their swords would be bathed in blood.

Dial paced back and forth like a caged tiger. When he looked out the window of his cramped hotel room in Dáfni, he could see the grounds of Mount Athos. He was literally a foot away from being inside. But because of his job title, he couldn’t risk breaking the glass or breaking the rules.

“Son of a bitch,” he cursed to himself as he replayed the day’s events in his head.

Three cops were missing, and so were all the Spartans.

The governor was being a total prick, and time was ticking away.

Dial wondered how things could get any worse. Then the phone rang.

“Nick,” Toulon said in a soft voice, “the police in Spárti brought in some dogs, and they found a lot of blood.”

“Where?”

“Near the entrance to the Spartan village and in a fighting pit near their school.”

“They have a fighting pit?”

“Oui. The blood was buried under a layer of stones and dirt. That is why they did not see it. When they dug underneath, they found blood, hair, skin, and teeth.”

“Shit.”

“Whoever was in there was hacked into pieces.”

Dial’s voice hardened as his anger boiled inside. “Any bodies?”

“No.”

“What about villagers?”

“Not yet.”

“Anything else?”

“I am sorry about before,” Toulon assured him. “I tried calling the governor several times, but I had no luck getting through. I can try again tomorrow, if you would like.”

“No, Henri, I’ll handle customs myself.”

“Then what should I do?”

“Stay in touch with Spárti. If you learn anything, I want to know at once.”

A gíou Pávlou, or Saint Paul’s, is the southernmost monastery on Mount Athos. Inside its walls, many treasures are protected, including fragments of the True Cross and some of the gifts brought to Jesus by the Magi. Outside its community, it owns two sketes — small villages of hermitic monks who prefer to live in seclusion away from the larger monastery. Both of them, Néa Skiti and Skiti Agías Annas, are located on the southwest corner of the peninsula and are connected to Saint Paul’s by a simple path through the dense forest.

At this time of night, the two monks did not expect to see anyone on the way to their skete. Hauling supplies on the back of a mule, they heard a rustling in the trees and paused to find the source of the sound. The lead monk lifted his lantern and was stunned by the sight. A man, dressed in full armor and carrying a sword, stepped through a thicket of bushes. A second later, another soldier emerged behind them, blocking any avenue of retreat.

The monks and the mule were now trapped.

“Hello,” said a voice from the trees. The two monks turned toward their right as Apollo stepped onto the dirt path. The red plume on the top of his helmet glowed in the lantern light. “We are seeking the next ridge. Is there a road?”

Both monks shook their heads.

“I thought not.” Apollo paused as he glanced at the dark peak that hovered above him. Its silhouette could barely be seen in the pale moonlight. “Kill them.”

In unison, the two soldiers lifted their swords and slashed the monks’ throats. Both holy men made gurgling sounds as they fell to their knees, drenched in a fountain of blood. The crash of their lanterns spooked the mule, which started kicking and braying.

The commotion was stopped a moment later when the Spartans struck again.

This time silencing the defenseless animal.